


Pattern Recognition

by monicawoe



Series: Pattern Recognition [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Blood, Gen, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Show-typical violence, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: Will Graham encounters a murder scene he can't unravel—what he saw in his mind isn't humanly possible. Stranger still, he's not convinced it was a murder at all.The Winchester brothers are tracking a  monster they can't quite identify. Something that might be a wendigo or a werewolf, or maybe something they've never encountered before. They head to Baltimore, Maryland, to interview a Doctor Lecter, who knew one of its recent victims.





	Pattern Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> Set after episode 4x13 of Supernatural and sometime during early season 1 of Hannibal
> 
> Big thanks to my beta quickreaver !

The victim was bound by skilled, practiced hands. They’d done this a hundred times before. An ornate pentacle drawn in charcoal was marked on the ceiling above. The floor below was pock-marked by the chair where he'd struggled to get free. The divots was oddly deep, like the chair itself had been pushed hard into the ground from his efforts. It hadn't tipped over, just pressed further down into the wood as he'd strained against it.

Will crouched down to get a better look at the small leather-bound book by the victim’s feet. With gloved fingers, he opened it, scanning the hand-scrawled notes and pictures carefully, using his pen to turn the pages. The words were scattered sentence fragments about a prophecy, about opening a seal. The most striking image was near the end of the book. A drawing of a church, with three bells, one atop the other, in its steeple. He’d seen it before, not far from his house in Wolf Trap.

Will stepped away and closed his eyes, let time move backwards and reset the scene.

_The man he has tied to the chair is glaring at him, a wicked, inhuman sneer distorting his features. There's no fear in that expression, just certainty—fervent dedication to the cause. His eyes are black. He strains against his bonds, but he’s trapped._

_“You don’t belong here,” Will says, as he sees through the eyes of the killer. He lifts his arm, extends his hand, palm out, and a sense of calm floods him. He grabs hold of the man in the chair, not physically, but with his mind. His power is the only weapon he needs._

_The man coughs, and black smoke starts to pour from his mouth, pooling onto the floorboards._

_“This is my...”_

_Behind him, the door slams open. His calm vanishes and the smoke wriggles free from his hold, shoots upwards. Escaping._

“What did you see?” Jack asked, concern masked behind a steely facade of calm, as usual.

“I’m not sure.” Will had never felt so uncertain about what he’d seen. It was impossible, and yet, it felt true.

“What does the killer want? What’s his motive?” Jack gestured into the room. “Why did he kill Owen Marone?”

“There’s two killers. Or at least … the one that tied Owen up isn’t the same one that stabbed him.”

“Interesting. They’re working together.”

“Not in this case. The killer interrupted the interrogator.”

#

“Wait,” Sam said, grabbing Dean by the shoulder. He pointed at the man standing in the doorway of the motel room.

“That guy’s not FBI,” Dean said. "Look at him."

“Then why is he at a crime scene?”

“I don’t know. Let’s find out,” Dean said shrugging him off.

Sam let out a breath between his teeth. Things hadn’t been the same since Dean had seen him using his powers. In the months since then, it'd gotten worse. The good he’d done—stopping Samhain, all the good he could still do, didn’t seem to make a difference to Dean: Sam’s powers came from evil, so they were evil. End of story.

But Sam had made his decision. He had to stop the seals from opening, no matter what. That’s what he’d been trying to do here.

The man inside the motel came out of the room and stood in front of the door, polishing his glasses until one of the feds came to talk to him—a man in a trench-coat and fedora that spoke in hushed tones, too quiet for Sam to make out a single word. They headed to a large black SUV and drove off.

“Come on,” Dean muttered, heading for the motel the second the last of the cars cleared.

“There’s no point,” Sam said. “They would've tagged and bagged anything the demon had on him. It's probably on its way to the evidence room.”

“Then why are we even still here? We got a werewolf-wendigo-thing to track.” Dean got back in the Impala.

Sam took shotgun after him, grinding his teeth. “I still don’t think it’s a werewolf or a wendigo.”

“It’s taking hearts.”

“Yeah. And lungs and livers, and it’s doing it with surgical precision. Could be a person.”

“Except for all the sightings in the area of a human-shaped thing with antlers.” Dean started the car. “What’s the address of that doctor?”

Sam pulled the address up on his phone and showed it to Dean. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. He knew the last two victims.”

#

“The ceiling above the victim was marked with a pentacle.” Will sketched out the image from memory.

Hannibal took the sketch and studied it. “Not just a pentacle. This is from the Lesser Key of Solomon. It's possible your killers suffer from a religious psychosis of sorts.”

Will nodded. “The victim had a journal. It slipped out while the team was marking the scene. Inside were sketches, and notes about opening a seal. A picture of a church.”

“Interesting. Perhaps your killers were after the same thing the victim was.”

“Maybe. It didn’t feel like that though.”

“What did it feel like?”

Will shut his eyes, let himself remember the exhilaration, the power flooding through him. “It felt … right.” A knock from the door pulled him back to the present. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” Hannibal said, eyebrows slightly raised. “I have no more appointments this evening.” He stood and walked towards the door.

The two men outside flashed badges at him. FBI badges. They looked convincing enough at first glance—wearing cheap suits and hardened expressions shaped by years of human ugliness. But they weren’t agents. Will could tell instantly, having trained recruits for years. They didn't have the right stance, for one thing, and their badges had an outdated format, phased out more than three years ago. These two were pretending to be agents. He walked up behind Hannibal, hoping he’d key in to that fact.

"Agents Walsh and Morse," the shorter of the two men said, slipping his badge back into his suit pocket. He gave Will an odd look, then tried to hide it by clearing his throat.

“Will, if you’ll excuse me, these two _agents_ want to talk to me,” Hannibal said. He knew. But he was humoring them regardless.

“Of course.” Will smiled at him, face carefully neutral. He didn't want to tip the two off and potentially endanger Hannibal. Though Hannibal seemed entirely unalarmed.

“Dinner tomorrow?” Hannibal asked, as Will stepped out the door.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

#

“Friend of yours?” Sam asked. It could just be coincidence that the man who’d been consulting with the FBI at the motel was here too, but he’d learned to be highly suspicious of coincidences.

“He is indeed. I take it you’re from out of state?” Hannibal stepped aside and let them in.

“Yes sir.” Sam gave the doctor his most disarming smile. “From South Dakota.”

Hannibal’s lips pursed, surprised. “Very out of state. What brings you to the east coast?”

“We’re investigating a series of murders, Dr. Lecter.” Sam had their cover story ready, and he didn't have to modify the truth much at all. “Three of them in South Dakota, two in Illinois, two in Ohio, and most recently, three in Virginia.”

“My, my,” Hannibal said, as he crossed the room and grabbed an armchair, placing it next to its twin. He gestured towards the chairs. “A killer with such a broad game-board must be quite difficult to track.”

Dean smiled at him grimly. “We’ll find him.”

“I’m sure you will.” Hannibal folded his hands in his lap. “So, how can I help you?”

“The crimes we’re investigating all have one thing in common. The victims were missing hearts.”

“Ah. So then one of these cases must be Andrew Roche. A suspected victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“You’ve consulted on this case before?”

“Oh, yes. Andrew Roche was a patient of mine. He came to see me a few days before meeting his … unfortunate end.”

Hannibal leaned forward, hands still folded, elbows propped on his knees. It would’ve looked casual except for the perfect posture. He inhaled deeply, giving Sam a curious look.

“Did you just... _smell_ him?” Dean asked, incredulous.

Hannibal’s lips quirked. “I apologize. I possess an over-developed sense of smell, a trait I’ve had since childhood. I can sense certain subtle changes in human physiology—detect cancer, for example.”

Dean’s brows furrowed deeper. “Sam’s got cancer?”

“No, nothing like that,” Hannibal said, leaning back in his chair. "Though he appears to possess a unique blood abnormality. High concentrations of sulfur. Quite unusual."

Sam cleared his throat. “I’ve been taking, uh … vitamin supplements.”

Hannibal smiled. “As long as they are from a reputable source, I’m sure there’s no harm in that.”

“So our case,” Dean said, flashing Sam a look. “How long was Andrew Roche a patient of yours?”

“Nearly a year. He had some irrational fears he wished to be rid of.”

“And did you help him?”

“I would like to think that I helped guide him to a path of understanding, yes.”

“Did he ever indicate that he had any enemies?”

Hannibal’s lips quirked. “He saw enemies everywhere. He was certain someone or _something_ was following him, with the intent to kill."

"Was there any truth to his paranoia?" Sam asked.

"I suppose there was, considering his fate … and considering humanity as a whole and its proclivities." Hannibal smiled. "Do you not believe the capacity for violence is inherent in all of us, Agent Walsh?”

Sam swallowed. “I believe most of us don’t act on it, unless we have no choice.”

"An interesting concept, choice." Hannibal looked to Dean. "Humans tend to believe their choices to be far more limited than they actually are. Then they act on those perceived limitations. Take Mr. Roche. Near the end, he believed that he had no choice but to barricade himself in his apartment, because the world outside was too dangerous. And yet he died in his apartment."

"Did he mention anything out of the ordinary at his last session with you?" Sam asked. "Beyond his usual paranoia."

"He did indeed. He said that his neighbor's eyes had gone coal-black. And this frightened him terribly."

Sam kept his expression carefully neutral. "Would you happen to know the name of this neighbor?"

“Owen Marone.”

#

Jimmy, Beverly and Brian were busy examining the victim's corpse when Will arrived.

“Oh hallelujah, Will’s here,” Jimmy said, without an ounce of his customary sarcasm.

“You think he’s got a better answer?” Brian scoffed.

“We’ve got answers,” Beverly said, “they just don’t go together.”

“What’d you find?” Will asked, coming closer. He kept about a foot between himself and the body. The smell of autopsies was something he’d mostly gotten used to, but it was difficult to ignore the stench when staring directly at the opened cadaver. They’d split open the rib cage.

“Stab wound to the throat, like you said—precise and quick.” Brian pointed. “The knife pierced the esophagus, but no major arteries. It shouldn’t have been a killing wound, though.”

“It wasn’t a killing wound,” Beverly said.

“What do you mean?” Will asked.

“This man was stabbed _after_ he died,” Jimmy said.

Will frowned. "Sorry?"

“Seventy-two house after he died.” Jimmy finished, frowning.

“That's impossible. The security camera showed him entering the motel yesterday morning.” Will remembered the date stamp on the footage. Plus, the blood on the carpet had been fresh.

“Pretty spry for a dead guy,” Jimmy said.

Brian groaned.

“He really was though.” Beverly pointed at his wrists. “These abrasions, they’re rope burns—he struggled against his bonds.”

“Struggled … after he died?” Will asked.

“Right. The abrasions are only a few hours old at most. But it gets better.” Jimmy gestured at the corpse’s feet. “This guy’s got a broken ankle. Again, several days old. But we saw him walking in the footage. No sign of a limp, no sign of pain, even.”

“Some kind of drug?” Will pondered out loud.

“That reanimates corpses?” Brian snorted.

“Is there a substance that could speed up the body’s decay? Make it look like he’s been dead longer than he has been?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of. Plus there’s no trace of drugs in his blood, just high concentrations of sulfur, for some reason. I thought maybe antibiotics, but nope.” He glanced over at Jimmy. “Tell him about the heart.”

Jimmy smirked. “You’re gonna love this.” He pointed towards the metal tray at his right. “His heart has a brand on it.”

“A brand?” Will moved closer until he could see the heart. It had, in fact, been branded. A symbol of some sort, a glyph maybe, with a large upside-down triangle, intersecting lines and what looked like an ornate V at the bottom. “Any idea what it means?”

“Yeah. It’s an angelic sigil.” Beverly grinned and spun her monitor around so Will could see. “The Sigil of Lucifer.”

Will blinked in disbelief. “And, was this sigil branded pre- or post-mortem?”

“Honestly, we have no clue. Based on the scarring, it looks like it’s been there for a year at least, but there was no previous damage to his rib cage, or any way at all somebody could have conceivably put this on his heart to begin with.”

“Then how’d it get there?” Will’s frustration with the irreconcilable facts was starting to give him a pressure headache. He rubbed at his temples, closing his eyes as he searched for answers that were nowhere to be found. “What are we even dealing with?”

“No idea. But whatever it is, it’s not playing by the rules,” Beverly added.

“Maybe he’s working off a different rulebook.” Will thought of the bloodied journal he’d found at the crime-scene. “Are all his possessions in lock-up?”

“Yeah, evidence room B.” Jimmy grabbed a scalpel. “We’re just about to get to the other internal organs. And we’ll have results from the prints we found in five minutes or so.”

“I’ll be back,” Will said, heading out the door, towards the evidence rooms.

He was speed-walking, common enough in these halls that nobody looked at him funny. It felt awkward, but was at least more socially acceptable than running. An odd sense of urgency had gripped him. He had to get that journal, before—before, what? Will rounded the corner, picking up his pace, and nearly slammed right into Jack’s chest.

“Whoa! Slow down,” Jack said, as he held his hands up, gently pushing Will back. He was smiling, but it didn’t look like Jack’s smile. Too many teeth, none of it in the eyes. “What’s the hurry, Mr. Graham?”

Bewildered, Will stared up at him. This wasn’t Jack. The thought clicked in Will’s head, even as his rational brain told him that wasn’t possible. But then, given what he’d seen earlier and what he’d just been told about the corpse down the hall, he clearly had to adjust his possibility threshold.

“Need something from Evidence,” Will said.

“Oh, well then by all means, don’t let me stop you,” Jack said, stepping aside. He gestured towards the room, his coat lifting away from his side just enough for Will to catch a glimpse of the small journal tucked in the waistband of his pants.

Will kept his expression neutral and nodded. Jack’s smile widened, and his eyes flickered to black. Just for a second. Barely long enough to register. Walking past him, Will kept his head down and asked, “You heading to see the body?” He didn’t mention anything about what the team had discovered, because chances were, this impostor already knew.

“Yes, but—only for a minute. I’ve got … family business to take care of.”

“Ah.” Will threw not-Jack his most genuine smile. “Well then, see you around.”

“Yes, you will,” not-Jack said, chuckling to himself. Jack never chuckled.

Will kept his hand on the Evidence Room door, and waited until Jack had turned the corner. Then he followed him, keeping his distance just enough. Beverly, Brian and Jimmy were still in the lab; he had to try to warn them somehow, or help them.

“Jack!” Jimmy called out with his usual enthusiasm. “You’ll never believe whose DNA we found at the scene.”

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” Jack said.

The names were familiar. Will scanned his memories frantically, and finally landed on a bizarre case in St. Louis from three years ago. Hostages at a bank, and a victim missing her skin. The elements of the case were so strange they still used it as a case study at Quantico.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Brian said, sounding vaguely disappointed.

“They were trying to stop me.”

“What do you mean?” Jimmy asked.

Will inched closer. Whatever this thing wearing Jack had planned, he wouldn’t be telling them everything if he thought they were going to be a hindrance. Will peeked around the corner, just enough to see Brian’s computer and the mugshots on the monitor. His breath caught in his throat; the two men on the screen, the Winchesters—he’d seen them at Hannibal’s. Heart thudding in his chest, Will fumbled for his phone, and pressed his speed dial code for Hannibal.

“Jack, are you okay?” Beverly asked. She knew something was wrong.

“You have my heart,” Jack said. Then he followed up the cryptic statement by thrusting his palm out, somehow sending Jimmy, Beverly and Brian hurtling through the air without so much as touching them. They slammed into the back wall; Jimmy hit a supply shelf on the way down and crashed to the floor along with all the metal implements that had been stored there.

Not-Jack grabbed the heart from the tray and shoved it in his pocket.

Will forced himself back behind the corner, knees shaking.

 _“Hello, Will,”_ Hannibal’s voice said through the phone.

“Mr. Graham!” Not-Jack said, suddenly right in front of Will. His eyes were solid black. He tore the phone from Will’s grip, said, “Will’s busy,” and hung up. "We've got work to do, Mr. Graham. Important work."

“I-I” Will stuttered, too surprised to move. But before he could get a better response out, Jack grabbed Will, put him in a headlock and held on tight, until his airflow was cut off and sparks filled his vision.

#

Sam was so on edge, he had to fight not to jump when the phone behind them rang.

Hannibal moved to answer it. “Hello, Will.” He hung up the phone moments later, looking perplexed.

“What’s wrong?,” Sam asked.

Hannibal returned to his seat. He stood next to the chair, fingers braced against its back, but didn’t sit. “Will called, but Agent Crawford interrupted him, said they were busy and disconnected the call.”

“Rude,” Dean said.

Sam could recall several times where Dean had done the exact same thing.

“That’s not out of character, on its own, it’s just that … Crawford didn’t sound like himself,” Hannibal mused.

“How so?” Sam asked.

“The choice of words, his inflection. It was his voice, but almost as though someone else were speaking with it.”

Sam gave Dean a look.

“Thanks for your time, Doctor,” Dean said, rising. “We should go.”

“Of course. If you have any further questions, you know where to reach me.” Hannibal held the door open, and nodded to them politely before closing it.

Sam followed Dean out the door of Doctor Lecter’s office, deep in thought. “We might need to interview Will.”

“That doctor was weird, too,” Dean said. “Something off about him.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Sam said, with maybe a little too much certainty.

"Out with it."

"With what?"

"You've got that look on your face."

Sam let out a huff. "You don't want to hear it."

"Let's say that I do."

"You don't. You hate what I can do, and what it means, so—"

"What, you gonna tell me that doctor's a demon?"

"No. That's just it." Sam chewed on his lip, let out a quick breath and made himself continue. "Demons and humans both have a soul. It’s corrupted in the case of a demon—that’s what they are: human souls gone bad. But this guy, this Doctor Lecter … he’s empty. There's nothing in there."

"Okay." Dean scowled. "I'm not gonna ask how you know that." He headed for the car.

"Probably better you don’t."

"So what is he?"

"I don't know."

"Is he what we're looking for?" Dean headed for the driver’s seat.

"Maybe." Sam ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated, and climbed into the car. “But I mean everything that fits the pattern—werewolf, wendigo, they’re more animal than this, at least when they're killing. This guy, he’s … I don’t know he’s—"

“Snooty. And pretentious.”

“What does that have to do with anything …” Sam’s voice trailed off as a black SUV sped past them.

“Was that the feds?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, grimly. “Same plates. It was at the motel. Two people, and one of them’s possessed.”

Dean pulled out onto the road in pursuit.

The car ahead of them sped, clipping turns at a pace that made following it precarious, even with Dean at the wheel. The SUV came to a lurching halt, finally, in front of a church with three bells in its steeple; they stood out starkly against the cloud-covered sky, refracting the glow from the streetlights around it.

“I’ve seen this church before,” Sam said as they waited for the men to exit their car. It didn’t take long. The taller one grabbed the shorter one by the shoulder and pulled him towards the church entrance. “In that demon's journal." Sam couldn’t help but sound bitter. This would’ve ended that night, if Dean had let him finish.

“Well ain’t that a coincidence?” Dean growled and got out of the car.

Sam followed him out, grinding his teeth to keep from answering. Dean was baiting him, and he wasn’t in the mood.

They ran to the church, and the moment they reached the stairs, the church’s doors slammed shut, blocking them.

Dean pushed, grunting, but the heavy doors wouldn’t budge. “We gotta find another way in.”

Sam ran to the side of the building, and found a back exit. It was locked, but he picked it open in seconds. They entered silently. The demon might sense them anyway, but hopefully it was preoccupied by its hostage and whatever had drawn it here. A narrow hallway led them to the back of the sanctuary.

The demon was chanting, standing by the altar, on which he’d tied up his captive—a captive that they’d seen before, with Doctor Lecter.

“We know that guy,” Dean hissed under his breath.

“Yeah,” Sam said, watching as the demon's chants grew louder, and the fiend held something above his prisoner—a human heart. They had to move now.

Sam stepped out into the open. “Let him go.”

The demon turned towards them, eyes glinting in the light of the candles around them. "The Winchesters. Thought you would’ve left town by now.” Behind him, the captive man struggled in his bonds, craning his neck to see what was going on. He looked terrified.

“Unfinished business,” Dean said, pulling Ruby’s knife from his sheath.

“You’re really gonna kill Chief of the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit, Jack Crawford?" The demon’s eyes went pitch black.

“Wouldn’t make a difference,” Dean said, “we’ve been on their shit list for a while now.” He pulled his arm back, ready to throw the knife, but Sam grabbed him by the wrist.

“We don’t have to kill him.”

“Come on, Sam, we’ve been over this!” Dean growled.

“Well isn’t this interesting,” the demon said, grinning.

Dean jerked out of Sam’s grip and made to throw the knife. But the demon flung his arm towards them, and sent out a blast of force. Sam stood his ground, rooting his feet the way Ruby had taught him, drawing on his own power to resist the demon. But the blast knocked Dean off his feet, sent him hurtling through the air and full force against the back wall. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. The knife skittered away, landing between the rows of pews.

The demon stared at Sam, curious. "Impressive."

A small smile crept up Sam’s lips. “Where were we?” He stretched out his hand and thrust his own power at the FBI agent, grabbing the demon inside. "What are you trying to do? Some kind of ritual, right?"

The demon bared his teeth. "None of your business."

"Tell me." Sam said, tightening his hold.

The demon cried out in pain, back trying to arch though he was locked in place. Blood trickled from his nose.

"Is it a seal?" Sam asked, increasing the pressure.

"Yes!" the demon ground out.

Sam loosened his hold just a fraction, just enough to let the demon speak.

"It's a seal," the demon wheezed, gasping for air. "And no matter what you do, no matter how many of us you kill, you won't stop us." He grinned wide. "He will be freed. The Morning Star, the true god of this world, the King of Hell and Earth will return!"

"No," Sam said. "Not on my watch." He pulled on the demon's soul, dragging the oily smoke out of the FBI agent's body. It poured out of its mouth, nose and eyes, spilling down onto the ground and gathering there, in a smoky coil. Sam let out a slow, steady breath and focused, opening the paper-thin boundary between Earth and Hell. It got easier every time, this part. With the slightest final push of will, Sam sent the demon down, the pull of Hell doing the rest of the work for him.

The agent fell to his knees and slumped to the ground. Sam ran to Dean, who was starting to sit up, and reached a hand down to help him to his feet.

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped, brushing Sam's hand away. His eyes fell on the unconscious agent, and he let out a huff, then gave Sam a hard look that promised, _We'll talk about this later._

Sam turned away from Dean, swallowed down the painful lump in his throat. Quickly, he moved to where the agent had fallen, and checked his pulse. He was alive. Unconscious, but alive. Whatever Dean might think, Sam had made the right call.

Sam headed for the altar, and cut the captive loose with his pocket knife.

#

Will watched as the man—as Sam Winchester—cut him free. He did it quickly, like he’d done this a hundred times before. “Thanks, Agent—"

“It’s Sam,” he answered, helping Will sit up.

“Sam Winchester, right?” Will thought he should probably be more wary, more afraid than he was. But he wasn't. There was clearly more going on than their files showed. A lot more.

Sam, for his part, looked surprised. “How’d you—“

“They found your prints at the crime scene—the motel room where they found Owen Marone.”

“They did?” Sam looked genuinely perplexed, and somewhat offended like he wasn't used to being caught.

“You and your brother have some really interesting files.”

Sam gave him a cool smile. “Are you going to turn us in?”

“After what I just saw you do? No.” Will held out his hand. “Will Graham.” He looked to where Jack had collapsed on the floor. “Jack attacked his own forensics team. And me.”

“It wasn’t Jack,” Sam said. “Those things he did, it was the demon that was inside of him."

“Demon. You’re talking, actual literal possession.” Will shook his head. "And the smoke—what you pulled out of him. That’s what they look like?”

“Up here on Earth, yeah.”

Will blinked. “I’m not going to ask you to expand on the implications of that." He climbed off the altar, rubbing his wrists where the rope had chafed him. “Did Jack know what was happening to him?”

“Some of it, probably. Some demons let the humans they possess watch, others put them to sleep, so to speak.”

Jack let out a groan, but stayed where he was.

"Oh good, he survived," the other man by the door—Sam’s brother, Dean—said, then he turned on his heel and walked out.

Sam looked after him, and the set of his jaw, the red flushing up to the tips of his ears, made it clear something was wrong.

“Your brother … you two have a fight?” Will asked.

Sam nodded grimly. “Professional disagreement.”

“Those seem to be unavoidable in this line of work.” Will smiled ruefully. “He doesn’t approve of what you can do.”

“No. He doesn't.”

"But it's obviously very useful for … whatever it is you do."

"Yeah. It is. But it, uh, upsets him. What I can do, and why."

"Because you’re different?"

Sam didn’t answer right away, but his expression spoke volumes. The shame was palpable, the kind that came from years of resentfulness.

"I’ve found that our differences will be tolerated as long as we prove ourselves useful." Will said, looking over at Jack. "I'm useful to Jack, but I don't think he likes what I can do either, beyond it's usefulness."

“How do you deal with it?” Sam asked.

For a moment, Will was taken aback enough that he couldn’t come up with an answer. But then he said, “I deal with it because otherwise more people would be dead.”

Sam gave him a bitter smile. “That’s exactly why I do what I do. It saves lives.”

“Like Jack’s, and like mine.” Will scratched the back of his neck and looked up at Sam. “You know there’s something I’ve been dying to know.”

“What?” Sam asked, warily.

“What really happened at the bank in St. Louis? The files said there were piles of skin left behind, and that the body they found ...”

Sam chewed on his lip for a second, and looked like he was about to answer, but his eyes darted to Jack, who was starting to rouse. "Maybe another time?"

Will nodded in understanding. “Go.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “Good luck, Will.”

Will, already heading to Jack’s side, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Same to you.”

#

 

“I don’t like this,” Dean said as he pulled onto the road. “Demon’s dealt with, but we’re not done with the case. You know, the one we actually drove out here for?”

“No we’re not, but we can’t stay. Not unless we explain to the entire FBI what we do and why the fact that our prints turned up at a crime scene doesn’t mean we’re the killers.”

“Seriously?”

“You touched the door, I touched the chair.”

“Fine, we’ll go. But we’re coming back.”

“In a few weeks, sure.”

“What if that wendigo-werewolf-whatever kills again, before then?”

“Maybe we scared it off, at least for a while.”

Dean gave Sam an unamused look. “You think monsters are gonna be running scared now too? That demon didn’t look scared.”

“And now he’s back in Hell,” Sam said. He said it plainly, no gloating, no anger. He was just stating a fact.

Dean ground his teeth, and turned his eyes back to the road.

Looking out the rear window, Sam saw Will walking Jack out of the church, towards the waiting police cruisers. He'd only known the man briefly, but felt a kinship there. In another life, Sam thought, they could’ve been friends.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a standalone story, but I loved writing this fusion 'verse so much there will definitely be other fics coming. If you're interested, subscribe to the series.


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